Through Emerald Eyes
by dreamqueen11
Summary: Beauty. Traitor. Whore. Lady Delia of Eldorne has been a lot of things since her arrival at Corus. Stupid has never been one of them.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Delia of Eldorne wasn't born evil. When she arrived at the palace, her plans were to marry a man and save herself from beinglady of the poorest fief in Tortall.She didn't reckon on falling for a handsome prince and becoming part of plot for the throne…

Disclaimer: The characters you recognize belong to Tamora Pierce.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Nocking an arrow onto my bow, I release it with a soft _twang_ and watch with satisfaction as it buries itself near the center of the target. The other girls squeal in admiration and gather around me to offer their praise, and I glance over at Cythera for her reaction.

As usual, she is intolerant of my smugness. While the girls continue to praise my archery skills, Cythera puts an arrow to her own bow and releases casually. The arrow finds the dead center of the target and she swings her bow down nonchalantly, a small smirk playing about her lips. Instantly, the younger girls leave my side and flock around Cythera. She obviously thinks it unhealthy for me to have a speck of self-esteem to my name. Disinclined to spend the rest of the spring day outside having an archery competition with Cythera, who can best me at anything, I stalk back inside with my bow in hand.

As soon as I reach the airy halls of the convent I begin to loosen the knot of my bonnet around my chin. I can't get away with having tan skin, but if I could I would rid myself of the bonnet immediately. My complexion is infuriatingly fair and freckles appear on my nose at the very _mention_ of sun.

The bonnet is three years old and very much out of fashion. If Cythera were not my best friend I am certain the other girls would mock me for it. I wish dearly that I could be like any other girl and write home for money to buy a new one, but Eldorne is probably the poorest fief in Tortall and we can barely afford to buy fresh meat everyday, so any clothes that are not strictly necessary are out of the question. Not to mention that my father is a selfish drunk and continues to spend our precious little money on the strongest Carthaki brandy.

As I continue to make my way through the convent halls towards the dormitory I share with Cythera, I nearly knock down Sister Clarence in my distraction. She does not seem to mind, however, and squints at me with her near sighted eyes. "Delia, is it? You'd best not be so clumsy at the palace next week, miss. Men don't find it attractive." She chokes out a wheezing laugh as if there is something funny about this. It's no wonder that she never found a husband at the palace in her day – a squat, dumpy figure coupled with a bad sense of humor never leave the men impressed. Goddess, I sound as vicious as the other girls.

Suddenly her words sink in. "Palace…next week? Are you certain?" A mad desire to scream in delight and terror clutches at my vocal chords, and I struggle to repress it. Finding a husband in Corus is my last hope for escaping the two other options I have if I fail to attract a man: Either become a nun here at the convent or spend the rest of my days at Eldorne with my father for company. Cythera once offered to let me live with her and her husband and be a governess to her gaggle of children, but it was in jest only. She is confident of my abilities to win a man and will not talk with me about my growing insecurities concerning my future.

Sister Clarence's jowls quiver with the pleasure that she has a tidbit of interesting knowledge that I am not privy to. "Oh dear, did I say that? You girls aren't meant to know until tomorrow. Be a dear and keep that to yourself, Delia."

I give her my trademark sugary smile and nod in assent. "Of course, Sister Clarence. Good day to you."

And with that, I wheel around in the corridor and scurry back along the corridor as fast as three layers of petticoats, a corset and heeled slippers will allow. All strife with Cythera is forgotten as stumble out into the sunny spring day and hold my bonnet up against the sun to shield my face from damaging rays.

"Girls!" I bellow in a manner that befits Sister Clarence, not a well-bred lady like myself. "Convent! Next week!" It is all I can get out before I sink onto a bench in exhaustion, but it is enough to bring all the girls eligible to go to Corus rushing to my side. I shoot Cythera a triumphant smirk from where she stands at the archery court. _Hah. I'd like to see you win the girls' attention back now, Cythera._

She doesn't even try.

* * *

Six Days. _Six days_. Six days of what, you ask? I'll tell you what. A carriage ride through freezing mountains listening to the endless chatter of new dresses that my peers from the convent are having made for them in Corus. I'll be lucky if I get _two_ dresses. If we weren't arriving at the palace today, I fear I may have gone insane. I once read a penny dreadful of Cythera's where a man took to feeding of the spleens of young ladies, and I confessed that the idea crossed my mind more than once during the later part of the carriage ride. 

I am not usually so cross with the other girls, but I find that their company is best taken in small doses and six days in not my idea of a small dose. It probably would have been bearable if Cythera were in the carriage with me. Although she does abandon me to gossip with the other girls from time to time, she is a moderately loyal companion and might have distracted me from spleen-eating fantasies if she had come along to Corus.

The night before we left for Corus Cythera got news that her father was dead and her mother required her at home immediately. She threw a tantrum in our dormitory that night that was so violent I fear for the husband she finds at the palace, because it will certainly be an abusive relationship if he is anything less than a complete puppet. Not that you would guess it from the docile front that Cythera puts on, but she can be brutally aggressive when she is displeased.

I am so fixed in my memories of Cythera's unladylike manners that it takes me a moment to notice that the carriage has stopped moving and the other girls' voices have cut off abruptly. Moving the curtained window aside slightly, my suspicions are confirmed.

_We have arrived._ I am in Corus. My whole future is counting on these next few months. I can see a cluster of knights standing outside the carriage awkwardly, and I realize that we are supposed to get out.

"I think we are supposed to get out of the carriage," I say in a slightly quivering, slightly higher than usual voice.

Apparently this thought hadn't crossed anyone else's mind, because a sudden excited whispering breaks out at this realization.

"You get out, Anne!"

"Me? No! It's your idea, you do it."

"Clara, go on. All the knights are waiting. Ooooh look out the window, so you see that chestnut-haired one there?"

"Come on. Someone, get _out_ there."

Unexpectedly, somebody decides that I am a likely candidate for this role. Before I have time to protest the carriage door opens and I am pushed out forcefully, falling to the ground and twisting my ankle on a borrowed pair of Cythera's high-heeled shoes. She despises heels, being on the willowy side, and I am always grateful to receive anything that will heighten my petite frame.

As my ankle gives out completely and I feel myself hurtling towards the ground, somebody steps towards me and I fall into sturdy arms instead. "Steady there," he murmurs comfortingly. I feel a hot blush rising to my cheek as I raise my head from his chest and look up to identify the man who caught me. It is the chestnut haired man that Maria was admiring in the carriage. I feel triumphant as I imagine what she must be thinking about me now, as I inadvertently claim the man she's probably set her sights on.

"Thank you," I breathe softly, letting my lips rest in a not-quite-shut pout that might either look ridiculous or seductive.

He doesn't burst into uncontrolled laughter the way Cythera does when she catches me making faces in the mirror, so I can place hope in the latter. Instead, he grasps my hand firmly in his calloused one and raises it to his lips, keeping his eyes on mine. "Gareth of Naxen at your service, Lady…?"

"Delia," I supply, leaving out my fief. It is nice to be looked at with admiration instead of the mingled pity and disgust I am greeted with when I mention that my title is Eldorne.

I take a step forward, only to discover that my ankle is still not steady, and Gareth is forced to catch me for the second time. "Oh Goddess," I say, putting a bit more pain into my face than is accurate. "I'm afraid I cannot walk on my own…could you help me up to my room?"

A cry of indignation that is awkwardly concealed by a cough comes from behind me, and without turning around I know it is from Maria.

Gareth grins good-naturedly and snakes his arm around my waist to support me. As I hobble into the castle, leaning into Gareth a good bit more than is necessary and twining my own arm around his shoulder, I can't help but feel slightly grateful that Cythera isn't here yet to capture the men's attention. It is nice to be the one wielding the power, for once.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's really a blessing you've twisted your ankle," Gareth confides to me as we shuffle up a tapestry-decorated staircase in the palace on the way to my new quarters. "Duke Baird can fix it in an instant, of course, but if you don't let on that its completely healed you'll be allowed to skip the welcome tour in the gardens, and I can assure you that it is _dreadfully_ boring."

My heart plummets a little. Is that why he caught me when I fell out of the carriage? So that he could skip a tour of the gardens?

"_And_," he adds mischievously, "you'll get first pick of the suites that have been set out for the ladies. I happen to know that the Lilac Suite…"

He trails off as I miss one of the steps we've been climbing and twist the other ankle. My weight brings us both down, and we roll down the stairs together. Gareth stands up immediately, apparently unhurt, but I am unsure of how to proceed with two bad ankles. I stare up at him from the floor helplessly. Cythera's shoes or not, I am going to dispose of them the second I am settled in. They are clearly a safety hazard, even if they do add three inches to my height.

"You all right?" he asks concernedly, eyebrows knit together in worry as he stares down at me on the floor. I bite my lip and explain that I am not capable of walking.

The expression that blooms on his face now is similar to what Cythera looks like when she devises a particularly clever scheme, like using her gift to destroy every hairpin in the convent so that the teachers are forced to wear their hair down until an emergency shipment of hair ties arrives.

"Well," he begins, and I notice that his gaze has strayed from my face and is now fixed on my bosom. _Honestly. _What is a respectable lady supposed to do in this situation? It certainly isn't taught at the convent. "We don't have that far 'till we get to your suite, and I doubt we would run into anyone…I guess I'll just have to carry you."

I squeal before I have time to wonder if it is ladylike and break into a fit of giggles, protesting Gary futilely as he descends and scoops me up easily. His strong arms support me, one under my knees and one on my back.

I attempt to lash out with my arm, still giggling, so he will put me down and we can wait for more proper assistance, and he squashes me against his chest so that my right arms is pinned. I breathe in the sent of smoke, cologne, and horses and fall still, content to stay nestled against that safe body. He begins to whistle as he strides easily down the hall, and I am calm in his arms for the rest of the trip.

When we reach the ladies' apartments, Gary (Gareth is what his father calls him, he tells me, and it makes him nervous) insists that I take the Lilac Suite even though it is the biggest by three rooms. The other girls will be furious with me for claiming it, and without Cythera to protect me I fear I may become quite unpopular. But Gary has already proved to be too stubborn to argue with so I let him deposit me on a mauve loveseat in the sitting room of my new suite.

As he exits to fetch a healer, I hand him Cythera's traitorous sandals. "Could get rid of these, please? They've cost me more trouble than they're worth." _And they're worth quite a bit too, if they're Cythera's._

He complies, but I see him tuck a shoe in his belt pouch as he leaves. Is he taking a trophy? My confidence comes rushing back. Maybe I'm not just an excuse to escape a tedious tour after all.

* * *

I wake up the next morning with a distinct feeling of foreboding, and it takes me a moment to recall recent events. Ah yes. I am at odds with the other girls for stealing one of Corus's most handsome (and wealthy) bachelors, and for claiming the best suite available. I can only imagine the names I've been called. Clara has a wicked tongue, and once she invents a new name for someone the other girls are quick to catch on. I am betting that "thieving whore" is not the worst of it.

A sharp rap on the door sends me out of bed (my ankles are as good as new, thanks to Duke Baird) and searching for a robe to wrap around my nightdress. I locate it in a trunk by my bed and answer the door as I pull it on. It is not Gary, to my disappointment, but a page with large round eyes who ogles at my bosom (improperly exposed because my nightdress is a gift from Cythera, who has a fascination with naughty lingerie) with less subtlety than Gary last night.

Snapping the robe over my breasts, I stare at him impatiently until he remembers that he has been sent to do something other than gawk. The boy looks at his feet for a moment and abruptly breaks into a well-practiced speech with a completely wooden voice. The main idea is that I am welcome to the palace, etc., etc..

I cut him off half way through. "That will do, thank you. Are you here for anything but formalities?" My brashness astonishes me as much as him. At the convent I would have been given oatmeal suppers for a week if I addressed the staff so impertinently.

The boy hands me a small bag of coins bearing the Eldorne seal. As I retreat back to my room to calculate how many new gowns the money will bring, the page calls me back.

"Wait, there's more." He offers a red rose that he's been holding behind his back the whole time and brandishes a scrap of parchment in front of him in a threatening manner.

"_Eyes as green as emeralds fine,_

_Skin as pale as…"_

I squawk in indignation and grab the parchment from the boy's hands. Gareth may smell lovely, but I cannot abide sappy poetry.

As I begin to slam the door shut, the boy offers one more scrap of information. "Miss? It's the prince's birthday tonight. There'll be a ball."

I accidentally do slam the door shut in my excitement, but I reopen it quickly. "Hey! Boy! Fetch me a seamstress, and be _quick_ about it!"

* * *

The woman my page brought back for me is professional and shrewd, and as soon as I empty the purse my mother sent and ask how many dresses I can get out of it, she is all business.

"Oh, probably three good dresses, or five less…polished ones from the girls we're training right now, if you'd like to go that route."

I narrow my eyes. She obviously knows about Eldorne's money problems or she wouldn't _dream_ of mentioning work that is not from professionals.

"But," she continues, ignoring the glare that I give her, "do you have other dresses? I have some skill at altering dresses, and it's a good deal cheaper."

I am torn between showing her the exit to my rooms and telling her never to venture back into the Lilac Suite while I am the inhabitant, and eagerly thrusting open my wardrobe door and sharing each dress, some of the _years_ old. I remember the imminent ball tonight and repress the urge to satisfy my pride and send her out.

The seamstress looks at me with pity when I display my collection of faded, worn dresses. I have a good four-dozen dresses, but I can only wear about half of them. Being poor has made me frugal, and I have kept the other patched dresses in the hope that I can sell them or repair them someday.

"I knew your mother, once," the woman shares as she examines each of my pitiful dresses. "She was a good woman. She doesn't deserve your father, begging your pardon. It was an arranged marriage, did you know that?"

This is new information. I abandon my wary glare, silently begging her to enlighten the rest of the mystery that my mother has become to me. She is meek and submissive, and unless Father has changed he still hits her when he is drunk. And yet she has never taken it to the courts, or stood up for herself in any way. My mother has become the ultimate guide for me – the woman I must not become. I am as daring as I can get away with where she is cautious. I manipulate people, and she is a wide-eyed, passive thing who pretends that any change in her life is a good one. I understand how my mother works, but I have never been able to fathom _why_.

"Your mother was the youngest of four siblings, three of them sons, and she never had much value in her family. I believe that she became engaged when her father lost a game of poker." She waits to see if I will reject this information, but I cannot think of a reason that she would lie about this. I have sunk to lavender couch, closer to a faint than I have ever been. I am no longer so impatient with my mother.

"It killed her, Delia. She'd always been so eager-to-please with her father. She knew that she wasn't as important as her brothers, but she'd always hoped that maybe, maybe her father had some spot in his heart for her. But when she became just another thing for him to gamble off…it just broke her.

"Now then," she says, back to business as though she has not just divulged the most painful secrets in my mother's past. "You'll have to purchase a dress for the ball tonight in Corus, as we haven't time to make one, but if you'll let me play with these dresses," she gestures towards the wardrobe, "I believe I can make something out of a number of them."

"How much-" I begin, moving towards the meager purse on my dresser, but she doesn't let me ask.

"Come now. Consider it a favor from an old family friend." Gathering my faded dresses up, she makes to leave.

"Please," I call out unsteadily. "Who are you? How did you know my mother?"

She hesitates, as though deciding how much to tell me. "Abigail Whice. And I sewed for your mother, too."

I have a feeling that she's left something out.

* * *

**_A Note from the Author…_ **

**Delia's always been my favorite character in the Tamora Pierce's books, so I'm having fun with sculpting her into the person she becomes in the later Alanna books. I'm afraid it might become a slightly angsty as it goes on, because Delia will have to go through a bit of hell to gain an evil quality…but I can't give anything away. Not that I know exactly where this is going (but that's what makes it fun!)…**

**Does anyone know offhand how old Jon is when Delia arrives at Corus? I know she arrives the day before his birthday, but from skimming the chapter I couldn't find an exact age he was turning. And is Alanna about 3 years younger than Jon? I never really got the age relationships. It would be a big help if someone could explain this to me.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

By the time I have unpacked all of my trunks, dressed to go into the city, and arranged an escort among the Sisters accompanying us from the convent, there are only a few scant hours before the ball. I have not eaten all day to save time, but as I wait for the hostler to saddle my horse I feel faint, so I pluck an apple from the nearby orchard.

Eating an apple plucked right from the tree may not be the most ladylike thing to do, judging from the disapproving glances Sister Lucretia is sending me, but I am beginning to get the feeling that perhaps being a perfect lady is not what it was made out to be at the convent.

When we arrive in Corus's market, I do not allow myself time to take in the vast expanse of venders. I have been here only three times in my life before, when my parents visited the city to pay liege to the king, so I am grateful that Sister Lucretia is here to help me navigate.

However, as we duck into the most fashionable dress shop in Corus, it becomes clear to me why my family visits Corus so rarely. A dress here is worth more than a quality horse! I finger each pale satin dress longingly, before I gather the courage to approach a salesgirl fixing a particularly lovely pink number to a mannequin.

"Excuse me, I was wondering where you keep your…cheaper dresses? The out of season ones?"

I steel myself for a ridiculing sneer, but the girl looks used to this sort of question. Pinning up the last of the dress, she heads to the back of the store and I follow.

"This is your first ball? You'll probably want a pastel, then, so we can skip these-" she gestures to a row of vividly colored gowns, and I am about to agree when a green one catches my eye. I pause to look at it, and the girl smiles at my find. Sister Lucretia, trailing behind us, makes a noise of disapproval but I ignore her. I brought her along for propriety's sake, not for an opinion.

"That's a bit daring for a first ball, if you don't mind my saying so Miss, but if you'd like to purchase it for a later ball it's particularly low-priced. See that left sleeve, there? It got torn a bit, so the value is reduced, but the seamstresses patched it up so well it's impossible to see if you aren't looking for it."

I examine the dress critically. Green is certainly my color as it brings out my 'emerald eyes,' as Gary put it. It is made of the finest silk, and the neckline is too daring for an unmarried lady, but it isn't like there is a law against it, I reason. The other girls would be talking about me anyway, so I might as well give them something interesting to gossip about. As for the tear, I can easily pin a brooch over it, and the dress will be good as new.

"I'll take it," I affirm, emptying half the money in my allowance purse from home. I am horrified and thrilled with my decision, and I pray to the Goddess I can pull it off without becoming the scandal of the season.

* * *

Oh, hell. I feel like a fool in the dress. Standing in the corner of the room where the eligible ladies are gathered before the herald announces each of us in turn, I can feel dozens of eyes on me. Whispers sweep across the room, and I wonder what possessed me to buy my too-bold gown today. _Ah yes. It was on sale._

The other girls' gowns are predictably pastel, most of them in shades of blue that I hear is the Prince's favorite color. I smile at their thinking. As if the prince will take an interest in a girl because she is wearing a gown in his favorite color.

A fanfare outside of our room breaks my thinking, and I feel ill as the herald calls the first lady into the ballroom. She hugs each of her friends before she departs, and I can't help but miss Cythera dearly. I have no one to hug before I leave.

A hundred thoughts rush through my head as each lady files out of the room, descends the Great Staircase with thousands of eyes upon her, and enters the sea of nobles below. _What if I trip down the stairs again? What if my gown tears? Oh Goddess, what if I never get called down?_ Finally, I find that the only girl left in the room besides me is Clara; the one who I'm certain has been slandering my name. Now is not the time for argument, however, and I croak a "Goddess bless," as the herald calls her name. She gives me a weak smile.

As the herald, at long last, calls my name, I feel I may hurl. My cheeks burn as I lift my skirts, descending the staircase carefully and not allowing myself to look at the mob of people below. I can feel them laughing at me – _that little Eldorne girl, what is she thinking? She ought to be trying to snag a rich husband, not putting herself in the center of gossip._ Will the stairs never end? Finally I place a beaded slipper on the ground (I have opted for flats tonight, for safety's sake), and I look up to see Gary offering an arm. The burning in my cheeks fades when I realize he is not laughing at my gown, but admiring it. _Probably the view of my bosom, mostly,_ I think wryly, but I am too relieved to be incensed.

Gary clears his throat and asks for a dance in a cocky Gallan accent, causing me to giggle.

The dance is a gavotte, lively enough to work some of the adrenaline out of my system. As whirl through the ballroom moving from partner to partner, I find myself in the arms of a vision in a cobalt tunic.

His eyes are the deepest blue, and ebony hair hangs over one eye with a neatness that suggests a maid spent some effort getting it there. His cheekbones are high enough to be the envied by the ladies, and they frame a perfectly straight nose. His build is muscular, and I can't help wondering is he could pick me up as easily as Gary. His mouth curves into a smile when he sees me.

"You must be Delia of Eldorne." He says, displaying two perfect white rows of teeth. "Gary's been talking about you. I'm Jon."

I am unsure of how I can curtsy to the heir of my country mid-dance, and I tell him as much, hoping to be pert without being impolite.

He laughs at my cheek, but we are forced to switch partners again, to my dismay. Gary is a gentleman, but he is no match to Jonathan, with those endless blue eyes…

When the dance is over I excuse myself from Gary and head for the refreshment table, both because I need alcohol and because I am hoping to attract Jon over by extracting myself from other men's company. As I grab a crystal glass of brandy from the men's table I see that my plan is successful. Jon is standing next to me, holding his own glass of brandy.

"Isn't _champagne_ the drink of choice for ladies?" he asks me. Clearly he has not heard about the characteristic Eldorne love for strong drinks, or he would not be asking. But I am not offended. I don't think that anything this man says could insult me.

I cock an eyebrow. "A _lady_ is a puppet of the Sisters from the convent. Do you mean to offend, Highness, or are you rude unintentionally?" Who _is_ this girl that is speaking from my mouth? It sounds like Cythera, not me.

"Deepest apologies, Mademoiselle Delia," Jon says, looking amused. "Could you forgive a smitten man for his blunders? Perhaps a dance might remedy injured dignity?"

I down the entire contents of the glass in one swig and replace my empty glass on the table. "Well, I suppose it could _begin_ to help…"

I place a lace-gloved hand on Jon's arm and he leads me in a waltz, keeping me slightly closer to him than propriety allows as he whispers compliments in my ear. If I weren't so euphoric with my good luck, I would be melting under the burning glares of a hundred jealous, blue-clad ladies.

* * *

I find that I am not lacking in partners for dancing, and I let the first dozen men that ask me for a dance have one before I am exhausted and must sit down. As I settle at a bench in the corner, hidden by a potted fern for privacy and sipping another glass of brandy, I am content to observe the other ladies' progress. It is comforting to notice that none of them are as successful as I at finding dance partners.

My last dance partner, Raoul of Goldenlake, finds my hiding place. He takes a seat next to me on the bench, and I worry that someone will discover us and think us a couple. Raoul is a nice man with a wealthy estate, but I have set my heart on the prince.

"How did you find me?" I demand.

He smiles lopsidedly. "I've been to a ball or two too many, myself. I am familiar with the hiding places in the grand ballroom.

"I couldn't imagine getting tired of balls," I confess as a pull of the slippers to stretch me feet. "I just needed a moment to salvage my poor aching feet."

I wince as I begin to massage a sore foot. Gary offers to do it for me, but I am still cautious about my reputation. What's left of it, that is.

I giggle as a notice Jon and Gary peering around the ballroom in what they must consider a discreet manner. While they've resisted putting their hands above their eyes to shade out any potential blinding light, the fact that they are looking for something is obvious to anyone. Obviously, I am not the only one who has been drinking tonight

I point it out to Raoul, and we watch them for a few minutes more, laughing. He takes pity on them and steps out from behind the fern, flagging them over.

Jon and Gary find that together they cannot fit on the bench with us, as it was obviously made for two and not four, so Gary picks up the fern and moves it elsewhere. Jon finds room on the bench to sit by sandwiching me between him and Raoul in a manner that does not give me the space I deserve as a lady, but it is hard to tell him off when I have already denied being any form of a lady. Jon tells Gary to fetch his squire, and I am wondering how to tactfully make Raoul leave when two more men drift over. Goddess, does it look like I am lacking in company?

As our party continues to grow I give up hope of speaking with Jon alone and try to enjoy the attention. What I would really like to do is crawl into bed and reflect on my first full day in Corus, but I don't know how to excuse myself without being rude.

Gary returns, leading a red-haired youth to the front of the crowd to greet me. I can tell at once that this boy is both unimpressed and resentful of me, and I'm taken aback. It is an unwelcome change from the attention I've been receiving tonight.

Jon introduces the boy as his squire, and the youth bows and kisses my extended fingers, blushing. He annoys me at once – it isn't as though I'm interested in _him_, either. But I can tell that Jon is expecting us to dance, and I take the opportunity to flirt with the lad. A little jealousy on Jon's part can't hurt, right?

"Alan of Trebond…I've heard of you, haven't I?" I brush my fan across lips as I feign hard thinking. I fancy if I were born a commoner, I would have made a fair player.

I let a tinkling laugh escape my lips before I recollect what I've heard at the convent. "The 'Squire's squire!' And you beat that dreadful knight from Tusaine. _I_ think it's thrilling."

I glance at Jon from lowered lashes to gauge his reaction. He is torn between amusement at his reluctant squire and envy. Right where I want him.

The squire is bowing. "It was nothing, Lady Delia." He knows that he is victim of much envy for taking my attention, as do I. His disinterest hurts me and I tell him not to be modest, and then ask about a dance, just to spite him. He cannot refuse.

As he leads me to the dance floor, I am careful to maintain a carefree façade, suddenly mistrustful of the boy. Anyone who will not allow themselves a drink too many at a ball obviously has something that they want to hide, in my opinion. But for now, I keep my prying to a minimum, keeping up an idle chatter that the boy fuels very little with sullen one-word answers.

Mercifully the dance is short, and it is barely over when the boy escorts me back to my seat and flees the ballroom like a kicked puppy. I blink at his retreating back. _Whatever did I do wrong_? Alan of Trebond has made himself a new mystery for me to puzzle over.

* * *

**Thanks to maliaphire for explaining the Jon-Gary-Raoul-Alanna-Delia age relationships, and to all my other reviewers for reviewing!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I wrote this chapter ages ago, and i feel like it's been ages since i posted so i'm adding it now. enjoy!

* * *

**

As the ball begins to dwindle down to the last few partygoers, I make my excuses and head back to my suite. I am drunk enough to be seeing double, and I find great fun in trying to avoid both sets of walls as a stumble back to my room.

Jonathan finds me as I finish climbing up the staircase that I fell down with Gary earlier. I've hitched up my skirt for easier climbing, and even in my drunken state I hear his sharp intake of breath as he catches sight of my slender white thigh.

I drop my skirts and smile up at him adoringly. "You got some brandy, Jon? I need some _brandy_."

"No brandy for you Delia," he declares. "You've had enough. Let's get you back to your room."

"I don't want to go back to my room," I protest. "It's so…_lonely_. Unless you come back with me? I could use some _company_." I break down in a fit of giggles at my suggestion.

Jon shakes his head regretfully. "Delia, you're drunk. If you woke up in my bed tomorrow morning you'd easily be entitled to go to a priestess for rape-"

I don't pay attention to what he's saying, instead studying the double image him and trying to determine which one is real and which is an illusion. Taking a guess, I throw my arms around his neck and latch my lips onto his.

He cuts off abruptly and deepens the kiss, bending down so that I don't have to stand on the tips of my toes. I'm too drunk to marvel that my first kiss is with the prince of Tortall. Instead, I allow my lips to part softly, like the women do in the penny-dreadfuls that Cythera kept stashed under her bed at the convent. His tongue touches mine tentatively, and his hands slide around the back of my bodice. Without thinking, I take a hand from around his neck and begin to fumble with the top button on his shirt.

Jon breaks away when he realizes what I'm doing. "Delia, we can't do this now. You need to go back to your room." He moves his hands up to my shoulders and guides me to the door to my suite, opening the door for me when I lunge for the doorknob and miss. Like a gentleman, he refuses to step in to the room.

"You be careful who you run into when you're drunk, Delia," he warns. "Not everyone in this palace will turn down an offer like _that_ when you're too drunk to know what you're saying."

I blow him a kiss as he turns and walks down the hallway. I think I'm in _love_.

* * *

The hangover I have the next morning is the worst I've ever had. I can't remember what I'd had to drink the night before, but it's stronger than anything Cythera ever stole from the guards at the convent. I resolve to stay in bed all day.

A knock at the door in the late afternoon shatters my plans, and I stumble up from out of bed without bothering to put a robe on over my nightdress. My hair sticks up at odd angles and my breath is rank and stale, but I am in no mood to impress.

It is Abigail carrying two dresses over her arm. She smiles as she surveys my disorderly appearance.

"Well, if I didn't know any better I'd say that the Lady of Eldorne has her very first serious hangover," she chirps. I glare at her and collapse onto a couch, closing my eyes. I'm quite certain that I'll never have alcohol again.

The woman has the nerve to _laugh_ at me. If I weren't depending on her for assembling a wardrobe, I'd have fired her already. As it is, I grab a pillow on the sofa and bury my head under it to block out the sound of her voice.

She pulls it away. "Delia, the prince has invited you to a dinner party tonight. You have about an hour to prepare. I suggest you get used to walking when your head feels about two hundred pounds, because you'll be eating at the same table as the King and Queen and you wouldn't want to give them the impression that you're an alcoholic."

Either Jon is a cruel man under his noble façade, or he hasn't realized that even after a good night's sleep and half a day lying in bed, my wicked hangover continues to bother me. With an effort, I stand up.

"Good work," Abigail commends sarcastically. "Now, lucky for you I've fixed up an evening gown that you can wear to dinner. It should be a bit less scandalous on the number you chose to wear last night." She brandishes an ivory satin dress with an empire waist and pink trimmings. I hardly recognize it as the dress that I bought in my third year at the convent.

Abigail helps me dress, tying my corset tight enough that my breathing is reduced to small, shallow gasps, and helping me slip into two petticoats and finally the gown. As she begins to tackle my hair, a question occurs to me.

"Why are you doing this? Helping me, I mean? Any normal servant would be demanding a fair sum for the work you're doing."

She stops brushing my hair and looks through my hairpieces, debating between a jeweled pink flower and a pink satin ribbon. Selecting the ribbon, Abigail brushes my hair back tightly as she answers.

"I owe a favor to your mother. And how do you know I'm not going to charge you for this?"

"What kind of favor? When did you know my mother? What did she do to make you owe her?" The questions come tumbling out of my mouth.

"That's between your mother and I, Delia," she says as she fastens the ribbon around my hairline to cover up the roots of my hair that have become oily from not bathing. "Now pick out some shoes and get yourself to the royal chambers. Lateness is hardly a quality admired by the royal family."

I don't ask any more questions, but I determine to write my mother a letter about the woman before I accept her as the godmotherly woman she's trying to be. If I've learned anything from being an Eldorne, it's to be careful where I place my trust.

* * *

The supper is held in a private chamber of the royal family, but the table seats at least fifty people and each seat is filled. I have been placed far down on the table while Jonathan sits next to his father, but the knight beside me is easy to converse with. The cruel grip of the hangover has begun to weaken, and I find that I am enjoying myself.

"Do you know how refreshing it is to meet a man who can keep his eyes on my face?" I ask him. I find that it gives me a thrill to say things that we have been expressly told not to at the convent. "Every man I've met at the palace has eyes only for my bosom."

The knight, Alexander of Tirragan, laughs dryly. "You aren't my type. I like a more voluptuous woman, myself." He smiles at my mock horror, and then confides: "Well of course, I'm under the strictest orders not to flirt from His Highness. His orders were to be as boring as I could be, but as you can imagine it's been rather hard for me. Being boring just doesn't come naturally."

"You ought to train at the convent," I suggest. "You'll pick it up from the Sisters in no time."

"So I would suspect, from the conversational skills of the other ladies who come here from the convent," Alex comments. "So what happened to you? Why aren't we talking about bonnet fashions right now?"

"Just a fluke," I supply innocently. "I think I must be some kind of a mutant. That's what they told me at the convent, anyway."

"Nonsense," Alex says. "On the topic of things you shouldn't be discussing as a lady, have you heard about that extraordinary man from the city who claims to be pregnant?"

It's so nice to have a proper friend again.


	5. Chapter 5

I am in an uncomfortable position when the banquet ends. It would be rude to return to my rooms so early, but I am a stranger among the distinguished scholars and foreign diplomats. Jonathan is unreachable among a crowd of Gallan ambassadors and I have no wish to embarrass myself by attempting to join their conversation. I suppose it was a thoughtful gesture of Jonathan to invite me to such a distinguished banquet, but I am more annoyed than pleased that I am stuck here with a mild hangover and no one to talk to.

"Ah. And you must be Delia of Eldorne," a silky voice interrupts my thoughts. The owner of the voice is obviously of Conte blood, with dark hair cut to hang fashionably around his earlobes and bright blue eyes that smile suggestively at me. Though he is clad in a formal tunic and pants, his physique is obviously muscled. I feel my heart quicken despite my determined loyalty to Jon.

"How can you tell?" I ask, snapping open my pink fan to cool my face from the sudden blood that has risen to my cheeks.

"My squire Alex described you as 'the pretty girl trying to pretend she enjoys being ignored in a room full of scholars'. _I _find it quite the disgrace that my cousin is unable to detangle himself from a conversation involving wheat production in Galla to talk to such a lovely lady, but if it means that I can have your company to myself I don't find that I can complain."

It is an intimidating challenge to flirt with a man who is not clumsy and shy with his remarks, and I play cautiously. "Whatever leads you to believe that my company is so pleasing, sire? We are not even acquainted."

"Forgive me, Lady Delia," the man says dramatically. "I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Duke Roger of Conte."

I offer him my hand and he kisses it, letting his lips linger a second too long against my knuckles. I feel the treacherous blush materializing again and lead Roger towards the balcony, where the twilight masks my flush.

"And how are you enjoying life at court, Lady Delia?" Roger asks conversationally as I settle myself on a secluded bench with scenic view of the royal forest. He sits down next to me.

"More interesting than life at the convent, I suppose," I supply absently, pretending to be enraptured by the landscape in front of me.

"Well, I find that your arrival has made court life _much_ more interesting," the duke says smoothly, and I can feel him leaning towards me, as I stare determinedly at the scenery. "I can't seem to remember ever meeting such a stunningly beautiful lady."

I turn towards him accusingly, prepared to reprimand him for such a horribly cliché line, but when I move my head to face him his lips crash down on mine with bruising force. I am like a rabbit cornered by a wolf, unsure of how to escape undamaged. His tongue probes against my lips hungrily and I realize that I am not repulsed, as I should be.

I push him away reluctantly. "Jonathan," I breathe urgently. "I belong with Jonathan."

He scowls. "Don't tell me you didn't like that, Delia. Jonathan doesn't have the experience to treat you the way I can. He's too naïve to know how to treat a woman. Is that what you want? You don't want _this_?"

Roger presses his lips softly against my neck, snaking his hand to the small of my back as he presses soft kisses against the flesh that my dress has left exposed. For a moment my resolve crumbles and I moan softly, tilting my head back to give Roger further access to my uncovered skin. The Duke's other hand reaches higher up my back, working nimbly on the lacings of my bodice.

I feel the dress ease off my shoulders just as a familiar voice from behind the hedge says impatiently "Yes, Lady Delia of Eldorne. Lovely brunette in a white dress, are you sure you haven't seen her?"

I break away from Roger and slap him hard across the face. Then I scramble out of the banquet hall as quickly as I can, holding the back of my dress closed as I run.

* * *

It is my fault, of course, that I let things go so far with Roger. I shouldn't have encouraged his advances, and I certainly shouldn't have taken him to such a private location. In my rooms, I ponder the Duke's motives as I slide out of my already untied gown. It is dangerous for him to approach the girl that the crown prince has so obviously claimed, and I cannot flatter myself that I had driven him past the point of logic with my beauty and charm. That kind of thing occurs in novels, not real life.

I am ashamed to admit my attraction towards Roger, a different breed of interest from the easy admiration I bask in from Jon. Roger is a challenge to me, a man who I must fight to impress.

A knock on my door interrupts my brooding. I grab a sheer rose dressing robe (funny that I should have an endless supply of lingerie and scanty cover-ups but only a few dresses, but that is what comes of a friendship to Cythera of Elden) and fling open the door.

It is Jonathan. He blushes when he sees my attire and tries valiantly to keep his eyes locked on mine. "Delia, I missed you after dinner. I'm sorry if the banquet was boring for you, but I had hoped to introduce you to my parents"

"I had a headache," I lie. "I had to retire early."

"Do you need a healer?" Jon asks, concern flooding into his eyes. I remind myself that this is the relationship that I deserve, not the uncaring, lustful one Roger would give me.

"No, just rest. I feel better now," I assure him. "Why are you standing out there? Come in!"

"Your reputation –" Jon begins to point out, but I scoff at him.

"Reputations are for the old and the bored to worry about. We are neither." I pull him into my room by the front of his tunic. "See? We're still alive. No explosions, no earthquakes."

"I was only trying to protect you, Delia, not lecture you," Jon says grudgingly.

"Protect me from what?" I ask him innocently. "This?"

I shrug the robe off my shoulders and slide out of it, exposing bare legs and my corset. Then I wrap an arm around his neck and stand on my tiptoes to reach his lips. As he was on the night he escorted me, drunk, back to my room, Jonathan's control seems to melt the second my lips touch his. And this time I am determined not to let it return.


	6. Chapter 6

When I was little, the fairy tales my nurse would read to me in her kind, creaky voice from the limited Eldorne library always frustrated me. They always seemed unfinished to me, ending as soon as the hero or heroine had overcome her first major obstacle. I knew from observation of my family that life offered not one challenge but an infinite supply, and I hated how the fairy stories ended in 'happily ever after', assuming that the heroes would skate through life without any more trouble.

Now that I find my life at court so much like a fairy tale that I could write it down and sell it as fiction, I begin to wish for my own happily ever after. But it is not to be.

I am awake but ensnared in the arms of the sleeping prince of Tortall, held prisoner in my own bed which is covered in nothing but the country's finest satin and silk. My plight is not one to rouse a great deal of sympathy, but I am loathe to wake the prince and engage in awkward conversation (it occurs to me that I have known him all of two days), and yet restless and anxious to get up. Finally I take my chances, peeling his arm carefully off my shoulder and sliding out of bed. Jonathan sleeps on.

It is my third day at the palace, and yet I have seen very little of it. I decide to explore. Donning a plain dress that Abigail has not yet transformed into a ball-worthy gown, I leave my room quietly.

Jon's squire Alan runs up to me wide-eyed as I head for the kitchens to request breakfast.

"I can't find Jon anywhere! He wasn't in his room last night. Have you seen him?"

I roll my eyes at Alan's obvious naivety. "Relax, Alan," I say comfortingly. "He's asleep in my suite."

Alan looks at me like a kicked puppy. Is he jealous of Jonathan? Surely _he _doesn't wish to sleep with me. He has an odd way of showing it, if he does.

"The prince can't afford to sleep in," he says coolly. "You'd better wake him up."

I press my room key into his hand. "You do it," I say. Facing the prince I barely know after making love to him is something I plan to avoid at all costs.

* * *

As I seat myself at an outdoor table to eat breakfast, I am joined by a tall man dressed in cobalt. I glance up, annoyed. I have no wish to talk to any men. I want to be by myself.

But I do not think Roger of Conte will take kindly to being dismissed.

"Good morning, Lady Delia," he says pleasantly.

I sigh pointedly. "Good morning, Your Grace."

I am quite sure that he is aware of my desire for solitude, but he does not show it. Instead, the duke shares a piece of gossip with me. "Word has it that the prince woke up in your bed this morning, Lady Delia. You certainly are ambitious. Ambition is a quality that I admire greatly, you know."

"Really."

"Have you considered at all how much you have accomplished? In three days you have won the hearts of many court men, the enmity of all of the court ladies, and the bed of the crown prince. Not to mention that everyone at the palace knows your name."

I massage my temples tiredly and do not say anything. Perhaps if I stop talking he will go away.

"A headache, Lady Delia? I have the most excellent cure in my rooms. Perhaps if you come up with me, I could help you."

The Duke has hit a nerve. "Just because I slept with the prince," I seethe, "Does _not_ make me a whore. Torment a girl who is interested in you, Roger. Although, I can't imagine such a girl. You might have to pay her."

His eyes flash, but it is with amusement and not anger. "Touchy, touchy. Not having regrets about Jonathon, are we?" To my great relief, he stands up. "If you ever change your mind about me, love, just say the word."

As he breezes past me, the button of his shirtsleeve catches on my hair, yanking out several strands and sending the rest tumbling down around my shoulders. He smirks. "You ought to wear your hair down more often," he advises. "You look positively ravishing."

* * *

I am more nervous as I descend the staircase in the ballroom than I was on my first night. In a pale pink creation with white lace trim and only traces of makeup, I look especially innocent in hopes of discouraging the circulating rumors about my affair with the crown prince. I know that the ladies will be spreading the rumors as determinedly as the men will be denying them, and such rumors are hard on a young lady's reputation.

There are several people I wish to avoid: Roger, who is both irritating and frightening, Jonathan, who I am not sure how to act around after last night, and every court lady who is interested in the crown prince of Tortall and angry with me for claiming him. That is, all of the ladies at the ball. This remaining population is men who will spend time glancing down the front of my dress and competing for attention, which will not do anything to improve my reputation. As I step down from the staircase, I make a beeline for the table of alcohol.

After three glasses of the strongest liquor, Jonathan catches me. "I thought you told me about a particularly bad hangover from this stuff?" he asks. "Stop drinking, Delia."

I set down my glass hesitantly like a toddler giving up a piece of candy. "Is that a command, your highness?" Suddenly talking to Jonathan does not seem like such a feat, probably because I am fully intoxicated.

"Yes," he affirms. "Where have you been? I've been looking for you all day."

"I went to Corus," I say truthfully. "I had to do some shopping for tonight." My newly bought pregnancy charm hangs on a sparkling gold chain that dips under my neckline, hiding it from view. I am not certain that I wish to continue this affair with Jonathon, but I am positive that I do not want children.

Jonathan slips his arm gently around my waist and guides me outside. The balcony is where couples hide from the public, and where gossiping ladies venture to see them. Jonathan takes me to a far corner and kisses me gently. "I missed you today," he whispers. "I couldn't stop thinking about you." Another kiss. "All day."

His hands glide down from my waist to my hips and I bring my own arms around his neck, linking my fingers together. It is I this time that melts from his kisses, closing my eyes and letting his lips touch me where they will.

Someone clears their throat from behind me, and Jonathan takes his lips reluctantly from my collarbone to survey the interrupter with annoyance. The annoyance turns to a look that is almost apology, and I turn to face whoever has joined us.

It is Alan, beet red from interrupting us and eyeing me untrustingly. "Jonathan, your father wanted to talk to you."

Jonathan tucks a curl behind my ear. "I have to go Delia. I'll see you later?"

I nod in agreement, and give him one more long, sweet kiss before he leaves.

**

* * *

**

**A reviewer commented that this story is going unrealistically fast. Yes, I suppose it is. But Delia is impulsive and doesn't wait around for things to happen. Also, I don't like to waste chapters where nothing really happens to make it seem like time is passing more slowly. If nothing happens in my stories, I get as bored as the readers and stop writing.**

**I just saw Superman Returns (definitely worth seeing), and I like to think that Duke Roger looks a bit like Brandon Routh, only more badass. Personally, I think that Duke Roger is the most appealing guy in Tamora Pierce's books. What can I say? I always go for the bad guys. And he's pretty smart, too. It defiantly takes an Einstein to come close to stealing the crown from under the noses of about a million people.**


	7. Chapter 7

I have no friends to talk to with Jonathan gone, so I return to the beverage table. I am beginning to understand my father's passion for liquor – even when you seem to have no allies in the world, alcohol is still your friend. I throw my head back and down another shot, blinking as the room spins a little bit.

Three shots later I determine that I am sufficiently drunk and attempt to turn around to go to my room, but trip on my hem and stumble. A strong arm pulls me to my feet. I squint and lean towards the person to identify my hero.

The Duke smirks at me, and I appreciate how handsome he is, especially in multiple images. I cannot remember what I found so revolting about him earlier today.

"I think you need an escort, my lady," he says charmingly. "You seem a bit unsteady on your feet."

"Not t'all, Roger," I inform him, shuffling forward until my slipper catches on my hem again and I pitch forward. It is only the Duke's fast reflexes that let him catch me before I hit the ground face-first.

"All the same, I insist," he says smoothly, offering me an arm that I cling to with both hands as we leave the ballroom. When we are out of sight of the hundreds of curious eyes in the ballroom, he swings me up into his arms, so that one arm is under my knees and the other supports my back.

We reach my room in a few minutes' time, and Roger shakes the door handle. "It's locked, my lady," he informs me. "Can you give me the key?"

The key…the key…the words echo in my mind until a groggy memory of handing the key to Squire Alan surfaces in my mind.

"Alan has got it," I mumble.

"_Alan_! How many men-" the Duke stops. "Nevermind. You stay here while I find him, Delia." He tips me from his arms so that I am standing on the ground again, barely balancing on my feet.

"No," I protest, catching his shirtsleeve as he turns to leave. "I don' wanna be…all alone."

"You need to get to bed, Delia," the Duke says reluctantly. "Stay here, I'll only be gone for a minute."

"Roger," I implore. "You've got a bed. Couldn't I use _your_ bed?"

He hesitates, and some kind of restraint seems to crumble in him. "Come here," he growls, pulling me back into his arms. He carries me to his set of rooms and he mutters a few hasty words that open the door, revealing a lavish apartment. Roger heads to a room in the back and deposits me on the bed there. He leans down over me and presses an expert kiss on my lips; a sharp contrast from the sloppy, eager kisses from Jonathan. I moan softly into his mouth, happy to be with Roger who can protect me.

Roger takes his mouth from mine. "Delia," he says, his voice husky. "I'm not just taking advantage of you. I care about you. That's why I'm doing this."

Talking doesn't seem logical to me. I tangle my hand in his hair and pull his mouth back towards mine, reaching for the buckle of his belt with my other hand.

* * *

The hangover I had two days ago was a slight twinge compared to what I have this morning. I groan piteously and open one eye to judge what time it is by the wretched light that burns through my eyelids.

The sight that greets my eye is that of Roger wearing only his pants, searching the room for his shirt. I scream and instantly regret it as my head pounds angrily.

"Don't be that way," Roger protests, ever cheerfully. "I was thinking if you were good, I could cure the hangover you must have. But not if you yell and throw things."

"Just…just fix it."

Obligingly, Roger rests his palm on my forehead, and cooling orange light pours from his fingertips to my head. I pull away when my head feels better, not wanting to let Roger touch me any more than necessary.

As I slip out of bed, we both notice that I am wearing only Roger's missing shirt unbuttoned, which nearly comes down to my knees. He looks at me pointedly. "I'll be needing that, my lady."

I scoop up my own discarded clothes and disappear into Roger's bathroom. No matter how much he has seen already, I am not the whore he must think I am.

Frustratingly, it is impossible for me to lace my own bodice because it ties in the back. I return from the bathroom with Roger's shirt, and wordlessly turn around so that he can tie my dress. Predictably, Roger takes his time. When he has finished his hands move up to my shoulders, massaging muscles that are stiff with tension. I feel his cool orange light melt into my muscles and I forget myself, leaning back into his still bare chest.

Roger wraps his arms around me protectively, kissing the side of my forehead. I feel so safe…

"No Roger. We can't do this. I'm sorry. I made a mistake." I scramble away from him before I can find myself somehow in his arms again, running through the halls until I reach my own room. I shake the handle. It is locked.

Goddamn Alan! I saw him last night at the ball, why couldn't he have given me the key then?

"Delia!" Jon runs up to me. He looks tired and disheveled. "I tried to see you last night! Why did you lock the door to me?"

"I couldn't get in!" I protest. "I gave Alan the key to wake you yesterday, and he never gave it back."

The answer satisfies him for a few seconds. Then his face clouds. "Then where did _you_ sleep?"

_With your cousin. I don't seem to be able to sleep in the same bed twice._ "My seamstress Abigail let me sleep with her."

Jonathan looks at me as though I have just admitted to sleeping with the castle pigs. "_My _bed is always open for you, Delia." He seems to be sulking.

"I- I did not want to wake you."

Jonathan softens, pulling me towards him. For the second time this morning I am engulfed in the hug of a Conte. But Jon's arms do not feel as right as Roger's do.

* * *

Roger of Conte has made a mess of my life. This much I am sure of, but what I cannot fathom is why then I am attracted to him. Two days ago I was so certain that I loved Jonathan that I invited him to my bed. Now, when he hugs me I can only imagine Roger's arms. Last night Roger lured me to his bed when I was drunk and helpless, and this morning I feel grateful for it?

Why can't I think Roger the obnoxious man I saw him as yesterday? I pace the hall as I wait for Jonathan to fetch my room key from Alan. All I know is that my infatuation with Jonathan has gone as quickly as it has come, and that Roger has become some kind of forbidden fruit that fills my thoughts.

Jonathan strides down the hall and hands me my key. Why should I continue to lead him on? It would be cruel to act on feelings I do not have. "Thank you," I say coolly.

Jonathan leans down to peck me on the mouth, but I turn my face so that his lips brush my cheek instead. I unlock my door and shut it behind me quickly before he can ask questions.

My eyes fall on the stack of letters that have accumulated on my desk in the past days. The distraction is a welcome one, and I seat myself at the desk.

I open the first one, a letter from Cytherra.

_Dearest Delia,_

_I _so _wish to be at court with you right now, winning the hearts of the handsomest gentlemen by day and laughing at them together by night. That dream is the only thing that keeps me sane as mother plans father's funeral. I swear, the funeral seems to be the as exciting to her as arranging a wedding. I spend my days in my room reading horribly written dramas and imagining you enchanting the richest, most handsome and powerful men in court. Even the prince himself!_

_Mama is taking me into town to buy the most expensive black Scanran lace for a veil at the funeral. She expects me to look for a husband even at the funeral, I think. I'll send this letter in town, or else it won't get sent for weeks._

_With love,_

_Cytherra._

I smile fondly at the letter before setting it down. I miss Cytherra. The next letter is from Mama. It is surprisingly short.

_Abigail Whice is a traitor and a no friend to any Eldorne. You must stop associating with her at once!_

* * *

**In response to musicnerd: This story is set in In the Hands of the Goddess.**

**To Queen's Own: Of course I wasn't offended by your review. I really do appreciate criticism. I was just trying to explain why things are moving so quickly.**


	8. Chapter 8

**This chapter has been slightly edited since i posted it a few hours ago. There was some confusion about Delia's reaction to Roger changing from hate to adoration in a couple seconds in the first scene, so check that out if you were confused before.**

* * *

There is no ball tonight, so I am free to spend the day as I will. Finding that my mail does not offer me relief from the confusion of my life, and in fact confuses me more, I depart from my rooms. 

The archery court is an ideal place for me to be, I discover, as I string my bow and nock an arrow. The court is empty as most of the palace is taking lunch. I glare at the target as though it is the source of all my problems and release my arrow.

It hits dead center, reminding me of Cythera's skill with the bow. I allow myself to smile.

"Is there anything you aren't good at?" a warm voice asks me.

I don't bother to turn around. "Roger of Conté, I thought I made it clear that I wanted you to stay away from me." I keep my voice as cold as I can, although I am aching to spin around and kiss him senseless.

"I can't help it," Roger states calmly. "You are…how did my cousin put it? You are like honey, and I am a mere fly. You are the flame, and I am the moth. You are the carcass, and I am the vulture."

I laugh in spite of myself. "Oh Mithros, Roger. If you ever try to woo a girl, don't use poetry. You Conté men don't seem to have much skill with it."

"Well then," Roger asks, "How should we court the ladies?"

I give up on self-control. Roger obviously does not intend to stay away from me, and it is impossible for me to keep my wits about me when he is around. "I'll give you a hint," I murmur, stepping close to him. Laying a hand on his chest I hook the other arm around his neck and bring his head close to mine, crashing his lips over mine forcefully. He groans and pushes me backwards until I am pinned to the wall of the shed of archery supplies, lips still attached to mine. One of his hands pulls the barrettes out of my hair until it swings down around my face in chestnut curls.

"Does this mean," Roger gasps, "that you have no qualms about deceiving my cousin?"

I scoff. "Jon does not interest me. I am through with him. He is a child next to you."

He stops kissing me and looks me squarely in the eye. "You have told him this?"

"No. I mean, well, I've been ignoring him all day, but I haven't directly turned him down yet. I hoped he would give up eventually. But I've been bombarded with bad poetry and trinkets all morning."

Roger does not smile. "You must take him back, Delia. Jonathan must not know about you and I. He must suspect nothing."

I gape. "What? Whatever for?"

"Jonathan…my cousin has a fragile mind. Insanity runs in the Conté family, you know. And I believe that he feels very strongly for you. If you turn him down…well, it's best for all of Tortall if you do not upset his mind so much. The Goddess only knows what would happen if you were to turn him down. Please, Delia. For the sake of Tortall, do not abandon my cousin."

"But…but what about us?" Why hadn't anyone warned me that Jonathan was slightly insane? He certainly doesn't seem it!

"What my cousin does not know won't hurt him," the duke assures me, smiling mischievously. "Come here."

He grabs my white-gloved hand and pulls me inside of the archery shed, tugging on the tie of my bodice lacings.

OoOoOoOoOo

I ponder where to find Jonathan as I emerge from the archery shed, twisting my hair back up into a bun. He could be anywhere in the palace, but the only place that I can find without getting lost is his room, so I head towards it.

Alan answers the door when I knock on Jon's room. I furrow my eyebrows. "Alan? What are you doing in Jon's room?"

"My room is attached to Jon's," he informs me coolly, and begins to close the door.

_Excuse me?_ "Wait a minute, Alan. I'm looking for Jon. Do you know where I could find him?"

"Probably in Corus, buying flowers and chocolates. That's what he's been doing all morning." Alan glares at me scathingly, as though it is my fault. Which it is, actually.

"When you see him again, could you tell him that I was looking for him?"

Alan nods hesitantly.

"Thank you, Alan," I say, sauntering off before he can slam the door in my face.

OoOoOoOo

When I return to my room, Abigail is hanging up newly mended dresses in my closet. I remember my mother's letter.

"Abigail, how well did you know my mother?" I ask her conversationally.

She stiffens and glances at me warily. "Well enough."

"Well enough to know that, when a servant stole fifty gold nobles from her, she called it 'unkind'? And when my stupid, drunk father punched her in the eye, she said it was a 'misunderstanding'"?

Abigail just looks at me, waiting for me to get to my point.

"What then would provoke her to call you a traitor, Abigail Whice?"

She sighs and puts down the dresses she was holding. "I knew it would come to this, eventually. Your mother would never repeat what happened, so I suppose it's up to me to tell you. Are you certain you wish to know?"

I nod.

"To be frank - I was your father's mistress. My father was the steward of Eldorne, so we could have had a respectable marriage. But Eldorne has always been such a damned poor fief…" She trails off.

"Yes?" I inquire impatiently.

"I met him long before he knew your mother. He liked me, but I wanted nothing to do with him. I had an inkling that he would need to marry for money, and I didn't want to get involved. But eventually he won me over. Eldornes have a certain aura that seems irresistible to the opposite sex," she adds, glancing at me.

If only it didn't apply to Jonathan.

"Eldorne crops failed for three years in a row, and your father became desperate for money. We both realized he had to remarry, but he promised to keep me in the castle as a seamstress so that we could continue to see each other.

"He met your mother's father playing cards in Corus. The amount of money your grandfather put on the table impressed him, and over a few bottles of whiskey they made the agreement that should he win, he would win the hand of your mother. He won.

"It was only after the marriage that he made the discovery that your mother was penniless and that the money he had won gambling was fake. That was when your father truly became an alcoholic. We became careless with our tryst, and soon enough your mother walked in on the two of us together, in bed.

"She ordered me out of the Eldorne fief forever, but truly there is not much for me to go back to. Alcohol is your father's first love, now, and I imagine my family does not miss having another mouth to feed."

She looks at me wryly. "And now I suppose that you are going to tell me to leave your chambers and never come back?"

I shrug. "That was my mother's battle, not mine. I have few enough friends as it is, and I should hate to sacrifice you for the sake of family pride. Besides, I would be hard-pressed to find another seamstress who repairs my dresses so well."

OoOoOoOo

That evening as I am dining alone in my room, I am interrupted by a frantic pounding at my door. _Jonathan._

Adjusting my scarlet nightgown so that the neckline hangs low, I unlock the door and allow him inside.

"Delia, what did I do to make you so angry with me?" he asks me meekly, and I am slightly revolted. Roger would never act so needy towards me.

With a sigh, I shake my head. "I was just tired, Jonathan. It was nothing you did. Don't worry about it."

"I bought you something," he tells me, bringing a jewelry box out of his pocket. It holds an emerald pendant that would match my eyes. Already I am calculating how much I could sell it for in exchange for more gowns. I force a grateful smile and admire the handiwork. If only I could spend money so easily.

It is ironic that the prince buying my love disgusts me, when most of the girls in Tortall would gladly buy his. Irony seems to be a leading theme in my life.

* * *

Sorry about the misspelling of Cythera in the earlier chapters. I would go back to fix the spelling of her name, but i really can't be bothered

To Drop You Oboe: Yes, I've read A Great And Terrible Beauty (by Libba Bray, for those of you that haven't. Read it!). It's one of my favorite books, and what made me want to try writing in the present tense.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part II **

**A new part for a new section of the story: the part where everything goes downhill.**

* * *

In the weeks that have passed since my arrival at court I have become more and more impatient with Jonathan, ignoring him at balls and showering my affections on other knights, particularly Gary and Raoul. It is my wish that Jonathan will grow tired of my flirtations and break off our relationship, but he becomes infuriatingly clingy the more I flirt with other men. My nights are divided between Jonathan's bed and Roger's, so that my own bed has remained unslept in for nearly two months. 

I am always careful to rise early when I sleep with Roger in order to creep out of his room before nobles are awake to catch me in the act and spread unwelcome gossip. On this particular October morning, however, I am alarmed to find the sun well on its way to the top of the sky by the time I awake.

Scrambling out of bed, I wrench open the curtains to be sure that it is well past dawn.

It is.

With frantic haste I pick up the articles of clothing that belong to me, throwing aside Roger's discarded shirt, tunic, breeches, and loincloth. Roger himself is nowhere to be found, but this is not uncommon in the mornings, when he is attending meetings with the king or teaching pages to control their gift. As I grasp my whalebone corset, an attached note catches my eye.

_Delia,_

_You are probably furious with me for letting you oversleep, but you deserved the extra hours of rest. Jonathan is on a hunting expedition with the other knights, so needn't worry about him frantically investigating your whereabouts. You are welcome to stay in my rooms until I return – my aunt is growing ill, so I expect my morning brunch with the king will be cut short._

_-Roger_

I smile fondly at the note and set down my clothes on the bed, pulling on Roger's shirt over my nightslip instead of the dreadfully restricting corset. His shirt smells of expensive cologne and yet is still utterly masculine, and I make a silent wish that I could stay like this forever, in Roger's room, wearing Roger's clothes, not worrying about Roger's damned cousin.

Emerging from the bedroom, I take time to observe Roger's quarters thoroughly. Although I frequent his rooms often enough I am rarely focus on my surroundings, only on Roger.

Now I observe. Roger's the sitting room is the main room, and from it I can reach two bedrooms, a lavatory, a small dining room, and another sturdy door whose room is a mystery, as I have never ventured inside. The door has been constantly locked for as long as I can remember, but today it is slightly ajar. _A mistake, or did Roger leave it open for me to explore?_

I do not consider myself to be an abnormally curious person, but when I am left to my own devices for an indefinite amount of time I like to keep myself occupied. That is what I tell myself as a step towards the door.

Besides, Roger couldn't be hiding anything truly terrible, could he?

A sharp zap of energy runs up my arm like a warning as I press my fingers against the door, and I pause.

_I shouldn't be doing this._

Nonetheless, I push it open.

Relief floods through me as I observe my surroundings. There are no secret mistresses hiding away in their undergarments until Roger returns. No prisoners bound and gagged, awaiting torture. No bloody body parts hanging on hooks from the ceiling, dripping thick blood. Cythera and her imagination have been a bad influence on me.

The door hides to Roger's workroom, and it is filled with resources I imagine a powerful sorcerer would need. Herbs hang in bunches from the ceiling, and bookshelves overflow with thick tomes written in foreign script. Different colored crystals are hoarded in a glass case, and lamps of white light shine steadily.

In one corner of the room is a miniature waterfall that pours down mossy rocks, and I stare at it curiously. It doesn't fit with the rest of the room. Surely Roger doesn't mean to decorate his workroom with waterfalls? It is such an un-Roger-like thing to do that I giggle as I approach the cascade of water.

Further inspection of the fountain finds me as baffled as ever, as the fountain appears to be nothing but a fountain. Is the water magic? Is it poisoned? Is it necessary to have running water to complete complicated spells?

As I move away to explore the other corners of the room, I catch a flash of red in my peripheral vision and turn back to face the perplexing waterfall once again.

And then I see it, a tiny doll submerged under the fountain. I recognize the miniature Queen Lianne in wax even before I pull her out from the waterfall, dressed in a red satin gown with real hairs curled and plaited on her head. What on earth?

_Roger wouldn't try to harm the queen_, I argue to myself. _He has nothing to hold against her majesty…what could he possibly gain?_

An idea sprouts in the back of my mind, but defensively I do not let it process. Instead, I reach for the next thing that catches my eye – a bundle of lace stashed beside the waterfall. It is with dread more than curiosity that I pull out additional dolls from the bundle: Jonathan. King Roald. Sir Myles. The Provost. Duke Gareth. Finally, a miniature version of myself.

Mine has obviously received the most attention. Every authentic chestnut hair has been arranged into curls that cascade down the back of the figurine. My lips, a seductive scarlet, hang open slightly and my eyes are wide as those of a startled fawn. I am clad in an exact replica of the green gown I debuted at my first ball. The figure has obviously been made carefully and lovingly, and the idea comforts me for a moment.

But then the troubling idea that has been teasing the back of my brain bursts through to my conscious mind.

_Roger is killing the royal family…Roger wants the throne…Roger is a traitor...treason!…you are his mistress…will be tried as a conspirator if caught…break off from Roger!_

And then I am running out of Roger's quarters and down the hall in my slip and Roger's shirt, pushing passed shocked servants and nobles, clutching the wax replica of myself in my hand, trying to escape from my discovery.

Running away is the only way of escape that I can think of.

As I raise a hand to wipe the wet tears that are trailing unbidden down my cheeks, I crash headlong into someone hastening in the opposite direction.

I should know better than to be surprised to see the shadow of stubble and mischievous glinting eyes that make up the Roger I find so attractive. I should be used to my life working out how I least want it to. Peering up at him from the floor where I have been knocked down, I lose the last shred of my temper.

"You are a _bastard_, Roger of Conté," I shriek as I rise to my feet without the help of his extended hand, not caring that several nobles have stopped to gawk in the middle of the corridor. "You and your worthless schemes and dolls. You are the biggest mistake of my life."

I keep yelling as he opens his mouth to defend himself. "I can't forgive you Roger. You can keep your figurines. Because I don't want anything to do with them or you. Ever again."

With this last pronouncement, I raise the replica of myself high above my head and throw it with all my might down the hall.

Sickening pain washes over my body as though every bone in my body has been crushed, and I crumple to the ground and blackness.


End file.
